


Here With Me

by dustlines



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustlines/pseuds/dustlines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s not stupid, no matter what he’s tried in the past to let anyone think. He knows Vulcans are now considered rare – practically exotic, in the minds of some – and he knows there are places in the universe that the destruction of Vulcan had made unsafe for any solitary Vulcan to venture to without utmost caution. Still, somehow Jim had not assumed a busy, thriving Federation base could possibly be one of those places.</p><p>[Contains no explicit content, save for descriptions of injuries. Focuses on recovery. Non-con takes place off-screen.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Although this work deals with dark themes, there will not be any graphic depictions of violence in it. This story is about recovery and support, with all relevant violence having taken place before this story begins. Any chapters that make any even remotely strong reference to that violence will include warnings at the beginning of the chapter!

* * *

The mission during which Spock disappeared was supposed to be a routine one: a supply run, and not even a particularly important one, more a matter of convenience than necessity. There was no pressing urgency behind the Enterprise docking at the Nikola Space Station, and it is this unavoidable fact that will make Jim Kirk hate himself all the more later, when he recalls making a suggestion that he had then assumed would be both simple and benign: that he and Spock would split up upon arriving at the supposedly peaceful space station, in order to save time.

“To maximize efficiency,” Jim had joked, with a friendly pat against Spock’s back as they prepared to go their separate ways.

“Indeed,” Spock had responded, his voice dry in a manner that Jim had come to understand was a delightfully passive-aggressive brand of Vulcan amusement. They were, after all, in no rush, so surely Spock was aware much of Jim’s enthusiasm was about getting to experience as much of the space station as possible in the limited time allotted to them both, ideally with Spock by his side. Finishing the boring, retrieval parts of their tasks quickly was integral to that being possible.

“So we’ll meet back here at the fountain in one earth hour then, right?” Jim had asked, an irresistible bounce to his step as he walked in tandem with the reassuring, grounded presence of what had to – just _had to –_  be the greatest first officer in Starfleet that a Captain could ever hope to have.

In response, there had been barely any motion on Spock’s face, but Jim knew him well. It was a smirk Spock was sending his way – albeit a very Vulcan smirk – when Spock replied, calmly, “If you believe it will take you a full hour to procure the dilithium crystals, then yes. We will meet at the agreed upon location at the conclusion of that hour.”

With a laugh at the gentle tease, Jim had playfully nudged Spock away and turned in the opposite direction, offering a wave over his shoulder that Spock – being Spock – had responded to with only a slight, proper nod.

As Spock had disappeared into a crowd of travelers, starfleet officers, and various other beings, Jim had watched him go with hardly a second glance. If Jim had known then, however, what was going to happen to Spock next, he would have abandoned all plans and all manner of excitement, throwing everything else aside just for a _chance_ to have taken that moment to run after Spock, disrupt the Vulcan’s smooth, orderly gait by grabbing onto his shoulder, and then, using every ounce of strength Jim Kirk had in him, Jim would have forcefully dragged Spock right back to the Enterprise, all the dilithium crystals in space be damned.

Instead, Jim had shown up at the rendezvous point a mere twenty minutes later, proudly clutching a drastically-discounted bag of dilithium crystals, as well as a burger for himself and some kind of vegetable and leaf product on a stick that he had thought Spock might like. At the time, Spock had been nowhere to be found, and at first, Jim had privately gloated being the first to complete their task for the day, but when the minutes had stretched on – 45 minutes, then 60, and then suddenly Spock was half an hour late and hadn’t been responding to any of Jim’s increasingly desperate hails, nor could he even be detected by the Enterprise's vast array of scanners, technology, or experienced personnel – a wild panic had well and truly started to writhe under Jim’s skin.

Of course, Jim’s not stupid, no matter what he’s tried in the past to let anyone think. He knows Vulcans are now considered rare – practically exotic, in the minds of some – and he knows there are places in the universe that the destruction of Vulcan had made unsafe for any solitary Vulcan to venture to without utmost caution. Still, somehow Jim had not assumed a busy, thriving Federation base could possibly be one of those places.

In retrospect, it’s one of the most egregious errors Jim Kirk will ever make. Because of it, Spock remains lost for over a year, no matter the immense expenditure of resources Jim Kirk throws into a desperate, unflagging attempt to find him, and when Jim does – _finally –_  find Spock again, things are about as bad for the half-Vulcan Commander as Jim’s imagination had dared allow him to fear, if not _worse_.

And Jim knows – thanks to one stupid suggestion, given on a mission that didn't even really matter – what happened to Spock is entirely Jim’s fault.


	2. Retrieval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are depictions of severe injuries in this chapter, including blood and dissociative states due to trauma. Please tread carefully and be safe if you think this may affect you negatively.

For all the damage Jim can see on Spock as the half-Vulcan materializes via transport beam into the shadowed, warm cabin of the shuttlecraft Jim had flown here in response to Spock's distress signal, it’s shocking Spock can still stand upright, though even that does not last for very long. As soon as he's fully materialized, it only takes a few seconds for Spock’s legs to buckle, and even less time than that for Kirk to throw himself forward, just barely managing to prevent Spock’s head from splitting open against the floor as Spock plunges into unconsciousness.

The room smells awful immediately: a sour, metallic smell pouring from Spock’s bloody, too-thin body and filling the small space. A choked, terrified noise leaves Jim’s throat as he cradles the part of Spock he’d just caught, his hands fluttering across matted, dark hair that has grown way too long. Through shock, only barely does Jim retain the presence of mind to make room for McCoy as the doctor rushes over with his medical equipment.

“Damn it, Jim, this is worse than we’d prepared for!” McCoy yells, as he scrambles to his knees and starts tearing various medical devices out of his medkit, placing the handle of one hypospray between his teeth while rapidly setting up a second one for immediate use. As he simultaneously passes a dermal regenerator that glows blue over the slick, green cuts and bruises all over Spock’s back, arms, and even – Jim’s heart lurches when he looks down – Spock’s lower half, McCoy blurrily says around the hypospray in his mouth, “Holdf himf steady!”

With the light, unresisting weight of Spock’s head in his lap, Jim stares at the green wetness seeping from seemingly all over Spock, dripping both onto Jim’s palms and the rough, dark gray carpet below. Unwillingly, Jim realizes he can barely hear anything over the sudden, deafening roar of his own heartbeat, so powerful in force that the pulse point in his throat, too, is thundering with the same forceful, agonizing rhythm. As he looks down at the prone, shirtless body of someone he cares about who has clearly been tortured, been starved and beaten, been hurt in ways Jim is too afraid to speculate about, he’s dimly aware of McCoy shouting frantic things over them both, and the humming sounds of medical equipment trying to quell the bleeding of what look like claw marks all over Spock’s emaciated, shuddering back. Not knowing how else to help, it’s all Jim can do to hold onto the frail, jagged curves of Spock’s shoulders, feeling his best friend struggling to breathe against Jim’s leg while Jim barely resists the urge to start screaming in both terror and rage over the juts of Spock’s pointed ears.

*         *         *

Hours later – mostly thanks to McCoy – the fact that Spock isn’t actively dying anymore is the only thing keeping Jim from having a total meltdown. Still, as he sits on the rough, carpeted shuttlecraft floor beside Spock, who is lying motionless on his back under a mound of heat-preserving blankets and Jim’s now blood-splattered, civilian leather jacket, Jim has a bad feeling that Spock may not agree that still being alive is a positive thing.

Under those blankets, Jim now knows Spock’s unclothed body is a mess of scars and swollen joints, bones that have calcified and been poorly healed from prior breaks now straining to escape through the bruises on his skin, but Spock’s half-lidded, bloodshot eyes are what scare Jim the most. Since Spock had reawoken roughly an hour before, he’d done nothing but stare blankly at the ceiling, not responding to even the most basic of communications, not even when his bloody, bony hands had been lifted so that Jim could apply a soothing, antibacterial salve to the raw skin around Spock's wrists. Lying there, Spock looks devoid of feeling in a way that – perhaps contrary to popular belief – Jim thinks would concern even the most studious of Vulcans. The only response either Jim or McCoy have seemed able to get out of him was a minor decrease in his body’s trembling when McCoy gave him a stronger dose of painkillers, and a soft, breathy whimper when McCoy lifted Spock’s head to slide his folded jacket under him for a pillow.

Though Jim thinks Spock’s silence might partially be due to the mottled green bruises leading up his throat and around the swollen curve of his cheekbone (Jim can’t stop wondering if Spock had been choked or punched first, or if the attack was simultaneous somehow), ultimately, Jim’s pretty sure Spock is having some kind of dissociative episode, one Jim isn’t sure he’s going to come out of.

A lump in his throat the size of an orange, Jim wraps shaking hands around his knees and rocks slightly on his heels, breathing a little sharply against the bare skin of his own arm. In the front seat of their shuttlecraft as it continues its long return trip back to the Enterprise, McCoy is also affected, his head leaning down between arms he has braced on his knees, a hypospray twirling silently between his fingertips. They’ve increased the air ventilation in the cabin so that they can breathe a little easier, as well as raised the atmospheric temperature for Spock’s comfort, but the air still smells vaguely of blood and other filth, even after McCoy and Jim had cleaned Spock up to the best of their ability in such a small, unprepared space. Spock may be physically more stable now, but there’s a lot more that still needs to be done for him, stuff that will require far more intensive medical equipment than the shuttlecraft or McCoy’s medkit can provide for alone, not to mention the... the emotional side of what has clearly been done to Spock.

“Do you think he’s going to wake up soon?” Jim is shocked to hear his voice come out a little frailer than usual, fear closing up his throat and making it hard to talk. He’s not sure he even wants to hear McCoy’s response, is deathly afraid the news will not be good, will not be anything even remotely salvageable, and though there’s a part of him that is internally yelling about how this is not good Captain’s behavior, that he can not allow himself to be this way in front of others, there is a special role that both McCoy and Spock have occupied for a long time now, one that allows them both to see Jim at his worst without judging him, and if there was ever a time Jim could not hold back his fear, this would be it.

Still, he wants to provide whatever strength Spock might need, so he tightens his grip just briefly on his knees before releasing them and dragging himself up from the floor, to walk up to McCoy’s chair and cling to the back of it.

“Bones,” Jim repeats, with greater urgency now, “is Spock going to–”

“Jim!” McCoy snaps, full of his own, more actively-expressed anxiety. “I wouldn’t know how to even _begin_ to tell you!” McCoy throws up an arm, swings it wild over his shoulder and nearly hits Jim with it, but Jim can tell that wasn’t McCoy’s intention, so he does not move away. “Spock’s physical injuries are beyond substantial, and though I think they can be dealt with over time, this is so far beyond the ballpark of what I am accustomed to treating. He’s suffering massive blood loss, bacterial infections, nutritional deficiencies to the extreme, not to mention the obvious, the obvious... the... the...” For a moment, McCoy falters, starlight from the forward viewscreen trembling nervously over his face as he pales, gapes wordlessly for several seconds, and then swallows hard before continuing, “It doesn’t take a doctor to know what’s been done to him. Now, you know Vulcans: they’ve got that touch telepathy thing going on too, hardly let anyone near them unless they need to, and now magnify that, and take away his _choice_ in the matter, and – ”

Jim slams a fist down on the back of McCoy’s seat so hard he feels something crack in his hand, the pain ricocheting up his forearm. Though he doesn’t say for McCoy to do so, McCoy immediately stops talking, the doctor’s eyes shifting to look at where Jim’s fist is still shaking against his chair, Jim himself unable to stop looking at the intermittent darkness and light of the stars rushing past their shuttle.

Though Jim opens his mouth and tries to speak, words fail him. He stands there, first gaping and then gritting his teeth, hot tears gathering in his eyes and then intensifying when he feels the gentle touch of McCoy gathering Jim’s shaking fist into his own hand to inspect it for damage.

“This – this happened because of me,” Jim is finally able to say, though he can’t stop the shaking of his body, knowing what Spock has been through in the past year of Jim being unable to find him. “I shouldn’t have left him at that station, _alone_. God, look at him, Bones!” Jim says, though he finds he can’t look at Spock right now, too afraid of the half-dead look in his friend’s eyes. “Look,” he repeats, though his voice is weak. McCoy is still holding his hand, though when Jim looks down, he can hardly see through blurry vision what McCoy is doing to help fix him.

McCoy grunts a little, the sound both sad and a little angry. “Don’t you dare start doing that now, Jim. You think Spock needs you blaming yourself for this, or do you think he really just _needs_ you? You want to blame someone, you blame the one who took him. They’re the only one at fault here. You never wanted this to happen. None of us would! Now pull yourself together! As I recall, you’re the one who refused to give up on him. Now, if you need to focus on something positive here, focus on that! Starfleet might’ve thrown in the towel, but you didn’t!” McCoy gestures with his free hand between the two of them, emphasizing the plainclothes they’re both dressed in, uniforms abandoned months ago when Starfleet decreed the search for Spock could no longer be a priority for the Federation’s flagship crew. “He’s here because you didn’t give up, because you kept looking!”

Jim feels weakened, knowing his argument of guilt is crumbling under his feet. “I didn’t even find him, Bones.  He sent a distress signal – ”

“That you were listening for, and that you answered. Now, don’t you dare go thinking that counts for nothing, because where I come from, ‘still breathing’ is damn well better than not breathing at all. And Jim? Over there?” McCoy points past Jim’s shoulder, to the nearly-motionless body on the floor that Jim is having trouble looking at. “Spock’s still breathing.” With a huff and a release of Jim’s hand, McCoy concludes, “So why are you still over here?”

He’s right, of course. Jim knows it. Bones is usually right about most things, and though Jim may balk at that sometimes, right now, having a voice of reason to keep Jim from teetering into blind panic is invaluable.

Not even sure what Bones did to fix his hand, Jim is slightly surprised to find it doesn’t hurt when he uncurls his fist, standing there with his hand shaking as he holds it out in front of him. Before him, Bones is giving him a look of disapproval, a frown on his face and an eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the other.

“Do I have to push you?” Bones says, his voice both dry and condescending, though only in the most caring of ways.

“No,” Jim says, and though his legs are still as wobbly as the rest of him, he turns around and goes back to sit next to Spock, who has not moved during their entire conversation. The floor under them both is warmer than expected, which is part of what’s keeping the shuttlecraft adjusted for Vulcan comfort instead of human, and so a bead of sweat is trickling down Jim’s neck as he leans over Spock’s blanketed body, giving his friend a face to look up at instead of the lights on the ceiling. This close, Jim can hear a slight rasp in Spock’s breathing patterns, though McCoy has stabilized the worst of Spock’s physical damage. For a while, Jim just stares at his injured friend, watching Spock’s chest rise and fall lightly under his sea of blankets and Jim’s leather jacket, unfolded over the sharply-defined ribs of Spock’s chest.

When Jim leans just a little closer to reassure himself with the sound of Spock’s continued breathing, he feels as well as hears a soft hitch of breath below him, and then Spock abruptly turns his head to the side, suddenly breathing a little harder and a little faster, his eyes closing as though he is afraid.

As though burned, Jim leans back immediately, chills going down his back as he realizes what kind of sight his leaning over Spock might remind him of.

There’s a brief, horror-filled moment of silence that passes over them all then, punctuated only by the soft, familiar hum of a shuttlecraft and active tractor beam in flight, and the less familiar, unwelcome sounds of Spock struggling to stay calm and to control his breathing. A moment later, there is an additional, shifting sound behind Jim as McCoy uncomfortably resettles in his chair and then says, very quietly:

“Maybe you’d better not touch him for a while, Jim.”

And so Jim scoots back a little, listening with a growing knot in his chest as Spock struggles to accept that he’s not about to be harmed. Still inhaling the scent of his own blood in the air, Spock takes several minutes to compel his breathing to level out once again, though his eyes remain tightly closed and his head remains turned away from Jim the entire time, as though he’s bracing his weakened body for an impact he somehow cannot fully convince himself – even here, surrounded only by friends – is not sure to come.


	3. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a slight panic attack in this one, plus more blood and Jim freaking out. Nothing terribly explicit, however.
> 
> Additionally, Spock and Uhura are not an item in this, but she is mentioned specifically because Jim knows Spock could use close friends right now.

Christine Chapel, a head nurse who had been transferred back to the Enterprise during McCoy’s time away, is visibly horrified by the condition she finds Spock in when he is beamed directly to sickbay, though she still acts both quickly and professionally to ensure he begins to be treated immediately, with McCoy at her side to inform her of what he already knows about Spock’s condition, as well as what he suspects needs to be treated first, and what can wait, and what has already been done.

During this, Jim helps McCoy haul Spock’s body as gently as possible onto a biobed, trying not to think about the blood that is once again seeping from certain parts of Spock’s anatomy, or the way it’s all over Jim’s gray t-shirt now, or the way the medical robes they’ve clothed Spock in rest gauntly around his thin frame, or the way that McCoy has been propping up Spock’s neck in the corner of his arm while lifting him because Spock doesn’t seem to have the strength to hold up his own head.

Jim is trying so hard not to think of so many things that he is caught completely by surprise when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder, causing him to nearly short-circuit, blubbering out some kind of vague, half-word of alarm as he lurches away from Spock to turn and find Sulu standing behind them all, a look of deep, heart-wrenching concern on his face.

“Captain?” Sulu breathes, his eyes flickering rapidly between Jim and Spock. “Spock’s… alive?” The excitement on his face doesn’t last longer than a split second, before being replaced with horror as he glimpses the trail of blood on the floor below. His jaw drops, shock momentarily robbing him of his voice as he takes a half a step towards Spock’s biobed.

Jim knows Sulu means well. Of course he does. As acting captain during Jim’s rather long absence, Sulu had gone to great pains to ensure the Enterprise was never more than a day or two’s maximum warp away from wherever McCoy and Jim had found themselves in their pursuit of Spock’s location. But there’s something about Spock being stared at when he’s in such a clearly vulnerable state, the Vulcan’s jaw set firmly but his eyes widening significantly as the biobed’s diagnostic scanner rises up and esconces him in an enclosing ring around his body, that causes Jim to grab Sulu just a little too tightly around the upper arm and physically lead him out of the privacy curtains that Christine Chapel is even now pulling around the area where Spock is to be treated.

“Wha– Captain?” Sulu stammers, following Jim’s lead, but wincing as he does. “Captain, your hand– "

With a deep, unsettled breath as they make their way into the hallway just outside sickbay, Jim realizes just  _ how _ tightly he is holding Sulu, and lets him go immediately.

“Sorry,” Jim gasps, scrubbing his now free hands down his own face. He realizes they’re still shaking. In fact, he doesn’t think they’re really stopped shaking since he found out the extent of what Spock has been through. “God, Sulu, sorry. Sorry.”

Sulu waves his apology off, his brow still furrowed with concern, but not, evidently, about this. “No, you’re upset. It’s okay. We’re all worried about him, Captain.”

“That’s not an  _ excuse _ ,” Jim says back, immediately, but his voice is too sharp, and too loud, almost on the verge of instability. It’s completely unprofessional for him to address a member of his crew this way, and furthermore, the sight of Sulu lifting a hand to press gently against the place where Jim had gripped his arm too tightly is making Jim feel nauseous with guilt. Unexpectedly, Jim is hit by a wave of dizziness, causing his balance to fluctuate. Wildly, he reaches behind himself to find the wall, just barely supporting himself there enough to avoid tumbling down it, and probably not enough at all if Sulu hadn’t reacted as quickly as he had, a lifetime of fencing and piloting ships giving Sulu lightning fast reflexes to catch Jim on the way down.

"Sir!" Sulu cries. "It's alright. Take it easy. It's been a big day."

Standing up from the vague crouch he’d fallen into, Jim more carefully holds onto Sulu’s arm as he looks him in the eye and says, “I think… if you do not object, Mr. Sulu, perhaps you should remain acting captain for the time being.”   


Sulu does not look even slightly surprised by this. His hand still supporting Jim's arm, he only sort of half-nods, as though agreeing is a mere formality at this point. “Is there anything Mr. Spock needs? Does the ship need to be diverted?”

The genuine concern in Sulu’s voice is enough for Jim to almost need a moment to recover from it, which makes him worry about how deeply the day has affected him.

“Actually… there is something,” Jim replies after a moment, swallowing to try to get some moisture back into his dry mouth. For everything that's been going on, he really doesn't want Spock to be left alone with it. “Tell Uhura what’s happening. Tell her Spock’s here, but that he’s hurt, badly, and that he’s in the process of being stabilized. Tell her McCoy will let her know the moment he is. Right now, he’s not ready for visitors, not by a long shot. Okay? And use discretion with anyone else you tell! Senior officers only. I don’t want everyone swarming him until McCoy’s given the all clear.”

“Aye, sir, I understand,” Sulu replies, swiftly. “I’ll be discrete.” Though his gaze does hesitate on the sight of the dark blue curtains obscuring Spock from view through the open doorway to sickbay, he still manages to pull back his shoulders and look away. “I know he’s in good hands, sir.” Clasping his hand briefly against Jim’s shoulder in an obvious gesture of reassurance, Sulu then dashes away, presumably heading back to the bridge.

When Jim reenters sickbay, he can immediately feel how the mood of the room has shifted – grown more fearful, more tense, more subject to something awful occurring – even before he pulls back a corner of the dark blue curtains and steps back into the area where Spock is getting treated.

Inside, he’s startled to find that Spock is both awake and sitting upright on a biobed that Jim is pretty sure should not have had its hood retracted yet, except for the fact that Spock is clutching the side of the bed with white-knuckled hands and breathing hard and fast: not as much as a human would when hyperventilating, but certainly harsher than Jim has ever seen Spock breathe. His head is bowed low and there’s enough matted hair in front of Spock’s eyes that Jim can’t read what’s going on in them, but McCoy is sitting beside Spock on the biobed and running a hand soothingly up and down one of the least injured, covered parts of Spock’s back, and that itself is cause for alarm.

“What happened?” Jim demands of Christine, who is gathering up a more portable diagnostic scanner from a nearby tray of medical supplies, her blonde hair swishing with the speed of her movement as she detaches the sensor part of the medical tricorder and holds the remaining screen steady while running the small device at a respectful distance above Spock’s body.

“We decided to do this another way,” she responds simply, and though there’s a part of Jim that is pained to realize Spock had suffered a traumatic reaction to something as harmless as a medical scan, another part of him is relieved to know Christine Chapel is the type of medical professional who can respond with tact and respect for her patients’ individual needs, whether physical or otherwise.

“Bones?” Jim shouts, wordlessly asking another question entirely, to which McCoy frowns and continues lightly rubbing Spock’s back. It seems an odd way to comfort someone who’d been so touch-averse in the shuttlecraft, but Bones is good at reading what people need, even Vulcans, apparently, for though Spock is clearly straining to stay upright, still he does not seem to be pulling away.

“Just a minor setback, Jim,” McCoy says, very softly. Jim gets the sense it’s for Spock’s benefit, for Spock seems to be holding his breath now, his eyes shut and his bruised body strung as tight as a piano wire ready to snap. On the screen behind the biobed, Jim notes that Christine has projected the results found by the tricorder in her hands, and McCoy is analyzing them intently, even as Christine moves about the room, apparently already setting up treatments. After a moment, McCoy glances over his shoulder at Jim, who is still standing by the curtain’s edge, not entirely sure what to do or say, and says, “Jim, the sickbay is a little crowded now, don’t you think? And you need to change that shirt.”

Looking down at himself, Jim belatedly realizes what a ghastly sight he makes, covered as he is in green splotches and his own sweat from the too-warm shuttlecraft. He nods somewhat dazedly, feeling very young and lost as he stumbles backwards and out of the dark blue curtain’s protective circle of medical care. Now that he’s standing in a room that’s otherwise empty and silent, save for the soft voices of Chapel and McCoy communicating behind him, he can feel his heart pounding once more, loudly, in both his head and his blood. There’s a headache a mile wide starting to stretch its way across his forehead, and he’s remembering he hasn’t eaten all day because his stomach feels raw and aching and empty, but surely nothing as empty as the half-starved state Spock is in, a state more reminiscent of the victims of the Tarsus IV massacre that Jim had witnessed in his youth than of anything he had ever before thought his first officer could possibly emulate.

Shaken in more ways than one, Jim has to force himself to leave sickbay, though leaving Spock behind is the very last thing he wants to do.


	4. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock POV. Warnings for mild flashbacks, a panic attack, and disorganized thought patterns.

Although there are, of course, many things obstructing his ability to remain effectively within a healing trance, Spock thinks he is managing these not insignificant difficulties as well as he possibly can, given the… admittedly dismal circumstances. This changes when, from deep within a trance state, he abruptly realizes that something is attempting to restrain his body, despite his belief that he had successfully freed himself from the place where this happens to him.

The panic is instant, instincts he’d once thought long suppressed – but which he now knows all too well are, in fact, easily triggered – causing him to lurch upwards, clawing at the biobed’s scanners in a desperate bid to keep them _off._ His knees burn where they slam against metal, his palms scraping raw against its edges, his breathing escalating to try to provide him with the energy to escape, before… before…

The scanner retracts before he can complete the thought, and with suddenly nothing to hold onto, he pitches forward, jagged bursts of pain all across his body coming back to his senses in one massive, overwhelming rush. Whatever the healing trance had suppressed, it is suppressing it no longer, and despite himself, Spock finds himself shaking uncontrollably from an adrenaline rush still trying to make itself known, though it no longer has anything to be directed at.

Winded also from an inability to draw deep breaths through his swollen throat, Spock holds onto the edge of a bed that is no longer restraining him and tries to calm his body’s rather uncontrolled reaction. He knows he does not have enough energy reserves to expend them so haphazardly, though when he looks up and sees someone he does not recognize, his body is seized anew with another surge of adrenaline, a physical sense of horror locking up his spine as he wonders what her role in this place will be. Is she here to hurt him?

Spock isn’t even aware he’s spoken aloud until he feels someone sitting down beside him and placing a hand on his back, and though that, too, is a cause for alarm, he recognizes the voice as Doctor McCoy – a friend – when the doctor says:

“Of course she’s not here to hurt you, Spock! No one’s going to do that here. You’re in sickbay. That’s Christine. She works here, and just like me, she’s here to help you.”

Relief drains Spock of all the energy in him, leaving him swaying against his desperate hold on the side of the bed. While he had been unconscious, it seems he had fallen into the most fortunate of possible circumstances, a fact he is becoming increasingly aware of as his senses become less specific and more generalized, broadening to absorb the familiar, brightly lit details of a room that is clearly aboard the Enterprise, and not somewhere else. Not somewhere... far less... appealing.

As his head lowers, chin resting against his chest, Spock feels his damaged throat tighten even further. Illogical, the way his eyes are heating now, in response to the knowledge that a friend is sitting beside him and touching his back to help calm him. Illogical, how the realization that he is now safe is now causing his body to weaken and shudder. Illogical, that he had grown accustomed to associating the presence of another with the presence of pain, and yet he does not want McCoy to move away.

There are footsteps then, coming from behind the curtains surrounding him. Spock has already begun breathing harder before McCoy whispers into his ear, “It’s just Jim, Spock.”

As soon as the dark blue curtains surrounding Spock are parted and Jim bursts into the room, the scent of human sweat born from fear becomes overwhelming in the air. Whatever it is that Jim sees when looking at Spock, it terrifies him. Guilt keeps Spock from looking up, his body tensing from the sound of Jim shouting something into the room. Spock is alarmed to find he’s not sure what was just said, though he does not believe Jim had been unclear. Spock can only focus on the volume of it, on the vibrations cast through the room in response, on the amount of safe distance there is between himself and the loud voice.

Additionally, Spock notices, vaguely, that the woman McCoy had introduced as Christine is now running a medical tricorder across his body. The flashing light in her hand is distracting, oddly drawing all of Spock’s focus to it, but Christine is not standing close to him, and McCoy is still touching his back, and these facts offer just enough reassurance for Spock to somehow find the strength to keep his weakened body sitting upright, though his head stays bowed.

Holding his breath to find a moment of stillness, Spock shuts his eyes and tries to resume his healing trance. Distantly, Spock can feel McCoy talking over his shoulder, though the doctor’s words seem to be moving too fast to be understood, caught somewhere in the spiral of lightness and agony swimming around in Spock’s head that indicates he will likely pass out soon. When Spock briefly opens his eyes to get a sense of his surroundings before he does so, he finds that Jim is gone, and with him – though Spock is ashamed to understand he is grateful for this – the alarming scent of someone else’s sweat has gone too.

McCoy is there to catch Spock when he slumps backwards, and this time around, Spock knows he's at least safe enough here to let both sets of his eyelids close as he faints, instead of just the one.


	5. Visiting

  
McCoy spends a lot of time hovering around Spock’s biobed for the next couple days, fending off visitors who have come to see him. Though Jim had done his best to maintain discretion regarding the details of Spock’s return, news travels fast on a starship, and inevitably, the crew is worried about their resident, half-Vulcan shipmate. Too much interaction clearly tires Spock out, however, so McCoy tries to limit it.

Still, there are so many people who want to see him. Uhura visits mostly during mornings, before her work shift begins. Though she and Spock had amicably broken up quite some time ago, they’re still friendly with one another. In fact, she’s the first person who manages to get Spock to talk after he’d woken up from his damned convenient Vulcan trance thing, though from what McCoy can tell, their conversations are somewhat superficial. McCoy doesn’t think it indicates a loss of friendship, but rather… perhaps Uhura is simply unsure what to say. In any case, when she offers to cut Spock’s hair, he lets her, and he even seems relieved when the long hair that had been falling into his eyes is finally gone, though the new (old?) look does bring into sharp contrast the jarring, hollow lines of his cheekbones. Uhura had sat behind him on his biobed, where McCoy had watched her struggling not to cry as she’d carefully trimmed the hair around Spock’s ears, no doubt taking note of the bite mark that had left a tear on his left one.

Chekov visits during his lunch breaks, carrying with him large, wieldy Russian novels that he’ll discuss with Spock like there’s nothing wrong at all, simply leaning eagerly over the edge of Spock’s bed and chattering away with a sparkle in his eyes. If Chekov has any idea what has happened to Spock, or if the extent to which Spock is injured disturbs him, he never comments on it, and Spock seems to appreciate this, for he’s far more willing than McCoy would expect to discuss the habits and motivations of the fictional characters in Chekov’s books. Occasionally, Chekov is even able to get Spock to eat some of Chekov’s meals: sometimes a taste of applesauce, or a nibble of winter squash, and one time, almost half a spoonful of dairy-free, butterscotch pudding. Spock eats with nervous, fidgety hands, no matter how collected he manages to keep his face, but Chekov -- to his credit and to McCoy’s relief -- never calls Spock out on it, nor tries to make him eat more than Spock seems able to handle, which apparently isn't much.

Scotty comes into the sickbay at random intervals, usually bringing data padds of information that he’ll share with Spock, often inquiring on Spock’s opinion regarding their nature. McCoy doesn’t get the sense that there’s anything terribly important about any of the problems Scotty brings to Spock, but McCoy does sometimes see Spock pouring over the data padds long after Scotty has left sickbay, so whatever they’re all about, they at least keep Spock preoccupied while he recuperates.

One night, while Spock is sleeping fitfully, he knocks one of Scotty’s data padds to the floor beside his biobed, and when McCoy bends to pick it up, the data padd activates. Unintentionally, McCoy finds the padd to be full not of engineering statistics and biomechanical mysteries, but of personal messages: well-wishes and get well letters from the crew. He almost drops the padd when he recalls how often he’s caught Spock staring at it over the past week, but in the end, he just swallows down a lump in his throat and slips the padd as unobtrusively as he can back under Spock’s arm, where he can find it again when he wakes up.

Sulu seems nervous about visiting, as though he’s a child sneaking into the kitchen to steal cookies in the dead of night, but he still finds time every now and then, usually at night, to come sit by Spock’s bed for a few minutes at a time and talk about various missions that the Enterprise has recently been on, or space anomalies that Sulu has found particularly interesting. Sometimes Spock’s eyes go blank when Sulu speaks, and it takes McCoy way too long to realize that, as Sulu is recalling his last year, Spock is likely recalling his own. Sulu seems to realize this before McCoy even needs to say anything, for their conversations very quickly shift to more modern, everyday topics, though now Sulu seems even more nervous than before about discussing life events with Spock, and the straight-backed, tense way that Spock listens to him indicates that Spock, too, is uncomfortably aware of Sulu’s own nervousness.

Sulu actually comes to talk to McCoy _specifically_ on a few occasions, inquiring rather repetitively if McCoy is _sure_ the Enterprise is okay following its current course, and furthermore, if McCoy is _sure_ Spock wouldn’t want to heal somewhere else, like perhaps a nearby Vulcan colony, or a Federation Shore Leave facility, or anywhere specific Spock might have in mind, perhaps with Sarek, Spock’s father? McCoy has to respond several times that if Spock wants to be somewhere else, he’s sure Spock would say so. Still, whenever Sulu leaves, McCoy wonders if their acting captain might actually have a point. Spock doesn’t seem capable of asking for anything much that he needs right now, and if he wants to be somewhere else, McCoy hasn’t figured out how to draw the information out of him.

There is one notable absence when it comes to Spock’s numerous visitors, one that surprises even McCoy, though he tries not to think too deeply into it. Jim likely has to work through whatever’s in his head first, though privately, McCoy is a little pissed at Jim for leaving Spock alone at a time like this. Jim obediently shows up in sickbay when McCoy reminds him that Spock was carrying certain diseases that could have spread through contact with his blood, but even then, Jim seems relieved to find Spock sleeping when he arrives, and rushes out soon after McCoy had given him a preemptive shot of antibiotics.

McCoy is damn well frustrated with Jim, almost to the point at which he wants to yell at him and physically drag him to sickbay during a time when Spock is conscious, but Spock still seems to be having trouble handling both loud voices and even minor hints of anger or frustration, so McCoy puts on a stiff upper lip about Jim’s absence and makes excuses when Spock’s gaze lingers on the space where Jim had stood, covered in Spock’s blood, just a week ago.

“Give him time,” McCoy reassures one day, while he’s adjusting the components currently in Spock’s IV drip. Spock only sits quietly on his bed, shoulders hunched forward and a slightly pinched, heavily repressed look of agony on his face. He's having trouble sitting upright still, injuries clearly being triggered when he puts too much pressure on his lower half, though McCoy has learned the hard way that Spock only reacts with panic when he is both conscious and being made to lie down, so McCoy now just leaves the bed adjusted to help Spock sit up as much as he can. “You know he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

Spock does not respond. Increasingly, Spock is not saying much of anything when McCoy is with him, though McCoy does not take it personally. As McCoy is one of the only people who has any concept of what Spock actually went through, maybe Spock just finds it a relief not to have to pretend he’s doing better than he is. Though McCoy has managed to provide relief for a lot of Spock’s medical issues, still there are many that will require prolonged treatments to truly mend, such as Spock’s drastic weight loss and some of the more poorly-healed, older injuries on his body, like his long-untreated broken ribs or some of the, ah, internal injuries in some of the more sensitive areas of Spock’s anatomy. McCoy knows Spock is in more pain than he’s letting on to, pain McCoy can see in the way Spock hangs his head when he thinks no one is looking, and the way his hands often tremble when he grips the sides of his bed to hold himself up.

McCoy’s made a habit now out of finding ways to casually touch Spock for comfort’s sake, whether by holding him up with a hand in the center of his back as McCoy checks his vitals, or with a hand to Spock’s forehead to manually check his temperature for evidence of fever. As disturbing as it is, Spock seems starved for the contact, and though he does not show this on his face, McCoy can feel it in the way Spock’s entire weight seems to press towards each moment of casual contact, as though Spock is trying to get as close as possible to being touched in ways that do not hurt.

McCoy has yet to figure out what to do about the mental aspects of Spock’s healing. Right now, he’s more worried about the physical aspects of what Spock needs: a steady, nutrient-rich formula in his IV to help him gain weight when eating seems largely too difficult for Spock’s overtaxed, weary body, as well as consistent monitoring to ensure the various infections that had plagued Spock’s body do not return, and discussing with Spock the rather unpleasant fact that he’s likely going to need one of his hands re-broken in order for the bones there to set properly.

“If you believe that is what’s best, Doctor,” Spock replies to this suggestion when it is made, his voice still a little hoarse, though at least the bruises on his neck and jawline have faded from an angry, dark green to a pale, greenish-yellow. He stares down at his somewhat crooked left hand as though the appendage is not even a part of him, and maybe, McCoy thinks, there’s a part of Spock that has had to think that about his body overall in order to cope with the last year.

“We don’t have to deal with it now,” McCoy says, uncomfortable with Spock’s casual disregard of the idea of his being in even more pain, even if it would have medical basis. “Fixing your hand can wait, you know. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

McCoy expects the disinterested look in Spock’s eyes will remain, and so he is surprised to see something flicker behind them instead: something raw, something _pained_ and _afraid_ , before Spock blinks his Vulcan mask back into place and says, as calmly as he can despite the hoarseness caused by his damaged vocal chords, “I see no reason to wait, Doctor. I trust your medical expertise.”

And so, as soon as Spock is asleep that night, his too thin body covered in a warm, deep red blanket from Vulcan that Uhura had brought in to help keep Spock’s constant shivering from the cold at bay, McCoy administers a sedative via hypospray to the unbruised side of Spock’s neck, and then carefully -- so carefully -- works on resetting the broken bones in Spock’s hand.

When he is done with that unpleasant task, McCoy wraps Spock’s hand carefully in stiff, clean white bandages, and then settles the appendage carefully across Spock’s frail chest. In sleep, Spock looks especially vulnerable, his unconscious body so open to harm and his eyelashes seeming particularly fragile as they cast thin shadows down pale, bruised cheeks. Spock can't sleep in the dark anymore either, needing to be able to see what surrounds him at all times in order to compel himself into any form of relaxation, however limited that relaxation may be given the nightmares McCoy knows follow Spock even then into unconsciousness. He's heard the whimpers Spock makes when he's dreaming, and he's seen the blank way Spock stares up at the ceiling for several minutes after he wakes up. McCoy knows there's nothing calm about Spock's mind right now, no matter the effort Spock is putting into maintaining a veneer of self-control.

A sudden anger fills McCoy, brutal and raw, and with a deep, shaking breath, he turns away from Spock’s bed, slides out of the protective circle of blue curtains keeping Spock safe from prying eyes, and goes to talk to Christine.

She no doubt notices the tension in McCoy, but she also seems to know it’s not about her, for she offers a small, sympathetic smile as she agrees to keep an eye on Spock for the rest of the night. Trusting her completely, McCoy steps out of sickbay and takes another deep, unsettled breath in the hall outside.

God, he feels like he’s going to explode. He's not surprised to find himself feeling this way; he’s just surprised it had taken him this long to get to this point, so caught up as he has been lately in the practical aspects of this matter. It occurs to him that he hasn’t -- not really -- been able to truly face what has happened to Spock: the horrible, unforgivable atrocities that have been unleashed upon someone McCoy truly cares for, someone whose hand he’s just had to _break_ in order to fix what some shitstain of a person had done to him in an act of pure, utter cruelty.

For a moment, McCoy stands in the hallway outside sickbay with his hands over his face, breathing into them slowly until some degree of control has come back to him. When it has, he sets his jaw and begins walking, a clear destination in mind.

He knows, after all, that Spock can’t keep going through this without being able to _talk_ about it, and there’s only one person on this ship better qualified than McCoy is to make that happen.

If Jim isn't already awake, then he's damn well about to be.


	6. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim remembers Tarsus IV, and Spock gets something he desperately needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings, though mention is made of Tarsus IV. Some disordered eating implied, though nothing explicit. Upcoming chapters will be more intense, as Spock's headspace is explored in greater detail. Fair warning!

* * *

“What the hell is the matter with you, Jim?” McCoy snaps as he storms into Jim’s quarters, long before the sliding door has even opened all the way. Before Jim can do it himself, McCoy slams the door panel to close and lock the door and then stands there with his hands on his hips, feeling the rush of wind of the door sealing just a few inches behind him. He then points at Jim, continuing, “Your explanation for avoiding Spock better be good enough to shock the shoes off a horse!”

“Bones!” To his credit, Jim has the decency to look chagrined, his eyes wide and his hands up, palms out as he backs away from the door. “I know, I know, okay? I know!”

The instantly defensive posture is not one that McCoy had expected, though he doesn’t know what he _had_ expected. Still, it locks him in place just enough to make him take stock of the situation, his eyes scanning the room briefly to try to get some sense of where Jim’s head is at. What he sees doesn’t inspire confidence, but worry: Jim’s clothes are lying haphazardly across the floor, a habit he’d just as good as abandoned once he’d assumed command of the Enterprise, and there are food wrappers all over his bed, which is unmade, blankets tangled up at the bottom and spilling over the side as if they’d been violently fought off at some point. Yet more ration bars are piled up on Jim’s dresser, far more than can be explained by Jim’s habitual snacking, and -- more worryingly -- on Jim himself, McCoy is startled to see a phaser strapped to his hip, despite Jim’s being off duty.

Just a little, McCoy deflates, but he does not back down, only lowers his voice and leans into Jim’s space as he says, “Jim, I am trying to _understand_. Your not being at Spock’s side when he's hurt is entirely irregular, _especially_ given the circumstances, and I’m not the only one who’s wondering why you don’t want to be around him! Spock's thinking about it, too!”

Some of the color drains from Jim’s face. “Spock thinks that?” he practically mouths, hardly with any sound. He reaches behind himself, as though he’s looking for something to grab ahold of, but there’s nothing there. Finally, he just takes a few extra steps and sits down on his bed when it meets the back of his calves. “Why would he think I don’t want to be around him? He hasn't done anything wrong.”

“Well, what else is he supposed to think?” McCoy takes a few more steps into the room, watching how pointedly -- how fearfully -- Jim is watching his every move. He’s not sure Jim even knows he’s doing it, but rather than continue standing, McCoy chooses to grab the chair by Jim’s computer desk and sit down on it. He swallows upon noting how much calmer Jim looks now that no one’s hovering over him, but McCoy elects not to mention it as he continues, “Seeing as you’re, you know,” He gestures somewhat aimlessly with his hand, “not actually _around him_.”

Jim gets a wounded look in his eyes, which McCoy notes are ridged with shadows, like Jim isn’t sleeping well. “Yeah, I guess… I can see that.” Jim licks his lips, then looks down. He takes a few, short breaths, then looks up and says, “Bones, I’m… I’m having some problems.”

“ _Clearly_.” McCoy leans an arm over the back of his chair, an eyebrow raised in expectation. “Care to enlighten me?”

On the side of his bed, Jim fiddles with the blankets below him for a moment, then seems to notice the food wrappers caught within them and flushes a little, as though he’s self-conscious. “It’s not about Spock,” he says, while standing up to pick the wrappers off of his bed, gathering them into the crook of his arm and refusing to make eye contact. “It’s about… well, it’s kind of about him, but it’s mostly not.”

McCoy feels the itch to demand a better explanation than that, to have Jim get to the point instead of dancing around the issue, but years of knowing Jim have taught McCoy that, when pushed about things that clearly upset him, Jim only locks his secrets up like a clam slamming its shell shut. With a breath to give himself patience, McCoy says, “Go on?”

Wrappers now cleaned off of his bed, Jim goes up to the trash chute on his wall and deposits them all before closing the drawer up. Putting a hand on the wall, he leans there for a second before turning around and saying, “Something happened to me when I was a kid, Bones. I thought I’d dealt with it, but I know now it’s still there, and I keep _thinking_ about it.”

A chill runs down McCoy’s spine, his mind unwittingly drawing up a whole host of unpleasant scenarios that Spock’s current condition might remind Jim of, none of them good. “Jim,” he says, very slowly, “whatever happened to you, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

Jim must read something in the dread causing McCoy’s shoulders to tense, for Jim flutters his hands a little in front of him. “Oh! Oh no, no, not… what happened wasn’t that.”

McCoy feels the tiniest stab of relief in his gut, though mostly he still feels cold, sensing the matter about to be revealed to him is still quite serious. “Jim,” he says, turning as Jim comes over to sit on the edge of his computer desk, well within arm’s reach of McCoy now, “what happened when you were a kid?” Despite their current closeness, there is a distance in Jim’s eyes that indicates his mind is light years away from where they are.

Jim looks down, one of his trademark, inwardly-pained smiles on his face as he recalls something particularly unpleasant. With a sigh, he says, “You ever read anything about Tarsus IV?”

McCoy thinks he must have, for the name sounds familiar, though he doesn’t recall any particular details. Still, the mere fact that it sounds familiar at all indicates it must hold some historical or diplomatic significance, even beyond the weight it’s putting on Jim’s shoulders now.

Without any prompting, Jim huffs out a laugh, then rubs a hand over his forehead. “It’s a planet at the edge of Federation space. I lived there for a year, after driving my stepdad’s car off a cliff. I guess he wasn’t happy with me or something.”

McCoy strains to put the pieces together, to try to understand what this has to do with Spock. Nothing is immediately obvious, so he listens as Jim continues:

“Anyway, there was a famine, planetwide.” Jim draws his arms up, crossing them over his chest. His legs, too, he crosses at the ankle. “Lots of people died.” The tension in his mouth goes slack, eyes darkening. “Starved.”

Without having to ask, McCoy knows it’s a lot more complicated than that, and he makes a note to look Tarsus IV up as soon as the opportunity presents itself. For now, he just says, “God, that sounds awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

A grin lifts the corners of Jim’s mouth, one that doesn’t touch his eyes, one that seems almost… unhinged. Jim huffs out another laugh, then seems ashamed of his own reaction, for he shakes his head and looks sidelong at McCoy, something deeply troubled in his eyes when he says, “You ever see someone waste away in front of you, Bones, knowing you couldn’t do _anything_ to save them?”

McCoy tries not to think of how his father had died: terminally ill and having lost the will to live, unable to breathe on his own or even to wake up anymore, and how tightly McCoy had held onto his father's hand as he helped to ease his suffering by helping him to slip away, per his father's final request.

Uncomfortable now, McCoy sucks a breath in through his teeth and folds his hands in his lap, leaning back so that his shoulder nearly touches Jim’s hip. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he says, “But this situation and that one are entirely different. For one thing, Spock’s not wasting away anymore, or dying! He’s improving! We just need to keep him doing it. And for that, he needs us. He needs _you_ , Jim. So whatever issues you have seeing him like he is now, you’ve gotta get over them. For Spock’s sake.” When McCoy looks up to judge Jim’s reaction, he sees Jim looking down, a little frown on his face. “Is there something more?” McCoy says, because of _course_ there is. If it was just one thing, Jim would probably have been able to get past it a lot easier than this.

Jim visibly swallows, his crossed arms tightening around his chest. “He seemed scared of me,” he says, very quietly. “When he woke up, I mean. He froze when I entered the room. He couldn’t even look at me.”

McCoy remembers the moment, remembers the tense lines of Spock’s back under McCoy’s hand when Jim had swept back the curtain surrounding Spock’s biobed to demand what was happening.

“You just startled him, Jim,” McCoy mutters, though he’s at least starting to get it now. “You yelled pretty loud.”

“I was scared,” Jim says, but it sounds less like an excuse, and more like a confession. He is very tightly holding onto his upper arms now, as if drawing them closer can somehow protect him more.

“He’s scared, too.” Carefully, McCoy reaches into the side holster holding Jim’s phaser. He draws the weapon out without meeting any resistance from Jim, and then tucks it into a random drawer of Jim’s desk, relieved when he can no longer see it. “He’s scared because he thinks what happened to him means he’s not your friend anymore.”

Jim visibly startles, turning to look at McCoy with wide eyes. “That’s… that’s ridiculous! I’m his friend, no matter what. What happened to him isn't... isn't...” He doesn't seem able to complete the sentence. He starts to pull away from the desk, as though about to leave, but McCoy grabs his arm and gently pulls him back.

“He’s sleeping now,” McCoy says, injecting just enough firmness into his voice to make sure Jim listens to him. True to form, Jim takes a deep breath and lets McCoy steady him with the hand around his forearm. “Sedated. You won’t be able to talk to him for at least a couple more hours, during which I, for one, plan to catch some sweet shut eye. I can let you know when he’s awake, if you want? Maybe you could visit him at lunch, once you get some sleep yourself. You look like you could use it, Jim. You're a sight.”

Jim nods. The gesture is slightly off-kilter, but there is a firmness seeping back into his shoulders, despite the slight wobble in his jawline. In him, a resolve is returning that wasn’t there before, the very same stubborn resolve Jim had carried with him during the months he and McCoy had spent in a shuttle together, chasing little more than sensor ghosts and gut feelings while they looked for Spock. Jim hadn’t given up on Spock then, no matter how dismal the odds, and McCoy is relieved to see that he still hasn’t.

“Yeah,” Jim agrees, “okay. Lunch. I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. You know. In a Vulcan way.” Standing from his chair, McCoy pats Jim on the shoulder. “He’s missed you.”

Jim shuts his eyes just briefly, as if pained, and he offers a strained smile when he opens them and says, “I missed him, too, Bones.”

Drained of the anger he’d come in here with, McCoy now only feels tired, finding that without adrenaline fueling him, his body now wants to drag him to the ground. Before he risks falling asleep on the floor, he offers Jim another sympathetic pat on the shoulder before he turns to leave Jim’s room.

As he walks through the doorway, he sees Jim glance briefly at the drawer where McCoy had placed his phaser, but then Jim steps away from it, removing his holster from his waist and throwing it onto the surface of the desk as he does.

McCoy tries to let that give him a little bit of hope, though he does so with some hesitation.

After all, none of them are entirely out of the fire just yet.

* * *

McCoy gets about four and a half hours of blissful unconsciousness in a dark, quiet room before his communicator starts chirping on his bedside table, Christine Chapel’s voice alerting him to the fact that Spock has woken up.

Blinking sore eyes and feeling a tad overheated, McCoy throws off both sleep and his blankets, hand stumbling to reach his communicator as his bare feet hit the floor. “Ah, thank you, Ms. Chapel,” he stammers, knowing as much as Chapel does that Spock appreciates the sight of a familiar face whenever he wakes up, and how badly he reacts when there’s no one to be found. Clearing his throat as he pulls his uniform shirt over his black, base layer t-shirt and then runs a hand over his hair to settle it at least partially, McCoy says, “I’ll be there shortly. McCoy out.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Chapel replies.

With another chirp, the communication line closes, leaving McCoy alone with his silence in a dark, warm room, yanking his socks and shoes back on despite his body’s begging him to lie back down and sleep some more. He silences the urge, however, because he knows he’s needed elsewhere.

Sickbay isn’t far from his quarters, so it does not take long for him to reach it. When the door slides open, he’s still blinking with some effort, somehow more tired now than he was when he fell asleep, and how unfair is that?

Stifling a yawn, he goes over to Spock’s curtained-off area, only to freeze in place when he peels back the edge of one curtain and sees what’s inside.

Jim is in there, way earlier than he’d agreed to visit, and he’s sitting on the edge of Spock’s biobed, facing him. The side of his hip is pressed against the side of Spock’s, and Spock’s head is buried against Jim’s shoulder, their arms wrapped around each other. They aren’t even moving. They’re just… sitting there, Jim gently holding Spock while Spock clings to him for dear life, Spock’s broken hand carefully propped up against the back of Jim’s neck while his other hand fearfully grips the back of Jim’s shirt. It takes a moment for McCoy to realize that they actually _are_ moving, but only slightly, and McCoy can’t tell from this distance if it’s Jim who is trembling, or Spock, or maybe both of them. They’re also completely silent, neither one of them seeming to have noticed that McCoy is there.

A lump gets into McCoy’s throat and sits there, growing bigger. His already tired eyes start burning, and with fingers that have rapidly grown numb, he lets the curtain fall back down, with him still standing on the outside of it.

“Goddammit, Jim,” he whispers under his breath, and pretends it’s just the exhaustion causing him to need to rub at his eyes.

He’s relieved, of course, but that doesn’t take away his surprise. He almost feels like Jim should have warned him. The scene he’s just witnessed seems too personal, too fragile, for anyone to just _walk in_ on it.

Trying very hard to keep his presence unnoticed, McCoy goes to find Chapel, and when he does, he asks her quietly if she can handle minding sickbay for a few more hours. He tells her that Jim is going to stay with Spock for the time being, because McCoy is _quite_ sure this is true, and then he lets Chapel shoo him away when he confesses he just really, really needs more sleep.

Behind him, his two friends behind the curtain remain as silent as they had been when McCoy first arrived, but it is a silence that speaks volumes, and for the first time all week, McCoy walks out of sickbay without his muscles full of knots, grateful that for all the pain he knows Spock is still in, at least he doesn’t have to keep it to himself anymore.


	7. Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock struggles to hold himself together, and Jim tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock POV. Warnings for limited descriptions of past sexual assault, and damaged self-worth associated with it. Nothing very detailed, but it is made fairly clear the nature of what Spock is remembering. Some dissociation and abandonment issues are also involved. Please tread carefully!

* * *

Spock holds on to Jim for far longer than he thinks he could ever find a way to justify, but Jim does not seem to mind. He shifts slightly in Spock’s hold sometimes, perhaps to keep his limbs from going numb, or to make breathing easier for the both of them, but there is never intent in these movements, and never any sense that he is trying to get any closer or farther away than Spock is seeking to be. Jim is simply there, his hands resting motionless against Spock’s back, the simple energy of his presence a balm against the frantic, humiliating panic that Spock has been struggling to suppress for some time now.

Here, for the first time in nearly a year, Spock knows there is no danger in allowing a set of arms to wrap around him, only warmth and an offering of safety, which Spock is ashamed to admit to himself that he has been rather desperate for. His body and his mind are both clearly damaged, a persistent trembling of his hands only highlighting the various pains across his weakened form, while the acts that had caused such injuries remain trapped in a feedback loop of memory that, regardless of his attempts, he has been unable to remove from his conscious thought.

Without saying anything, Jim takes a deep, slow breath. Spock feels the air filling Jim’s lungs, pushing against Spock’s chest and lifting Spock’s head where it is pressed against Jim’s shoulder, and then Jim exhales, the puff of air running softly down Spock’s back. For no particular reason, Spock feels adrenaline spike irrationally in his body: a now-familiar fear in him of someone else’s weight both upon and forcing themself within his weakened body. Instead of pulling away, he curls his unbroken hand more tightly in the back of Jim’s shirt. As Spock feels a wetness begin to soak into the sleeve of Jim’s shirt, he feels also the press of Jim’s head leaning into the crest of his hair, then the gentle touch of Jim’s hand landing on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Instead of being made to reveal or even to acknowledge his tears, Spock is being allowed to hide them further in the shadowed, warm space of Jim’s shoulder.

Spock’s next breath is somewhat labored, his ribs and the lower half of his body sore as a phantom force seems to wrap itself around him.

He does not feel comfortable facing how often he has found himself so close to crying in the past year, nor how often his tears had been viewed as incentive to hurt him further, many times while he was forcibly made to look up at the ones causing him harm. There had been no hiding. His pain had been exposed, his compromised reactions not allowed to be kept to himself. In fact, his difficulty in concealing his physical and often emotional responses to what was happening to his body had often been used as a selling point: the Vulcan who can respond to what is being done to him. This was, evidently, a rare commodity.

Vulcans, after all, are not supposed to be able to feel this way, much less as visibly as Spock has. What Spock feels is overwhelming, straining his meditative practices to their limits in his efforts to cope with it, though at least, here, on the _Enterprise_ once more, he is allowed the dignity of his own silence, the allowance to stare quietly at a wall when he needs to calm himself, a knowledge that he can close his eyes without being harmed, and a shroud of dark curtains around him that no one other than those he trusts are allowed to pass into.

Jim takes another breath, still deep, but more careful this time. His hands are both motionless against Spock when he interrupts Spock’s mental reverie to say, very quietly, “Spock, this isn’t your f...f-fault.”

The sound of a break in Jim’s voice is unexpected, Spock having thought he was the only one struggling to contain himself. For a moment, he wants to pull back and confirm with his own eyes the reality that Jim has not, as Spock had feared before, chosen to end their friendship due to the nature of the violations Spock had endured, though perhaps Jim’s return to sickbay – as well as his willingness to remain holding Spock like this for so long – have already confirmed that.

Gradually, Spock filters in another sensation: that of Jim’s own, subtle tremors. Against the now nearly-constant presence of his own, Spock realizes he had barely felt them.

Carefully, Spock unclenches the fist he has been holding against the back of Jim’s shirt, smoothing his hand instead into the same flattened, gentling touch that Jim is holding against Spock’s own back. “You are afraid,” he says, as softly as Jim had spoken.

Jim makes a choked off sound over Spock’s shoulder, then makes an obvious, physical effort to suck in a breath and pull it back into himself. “You’re… you’re so _thin_ ,” he whispers, and there’s a deep fear in that, something so far beyond their current situation.

Seeking to understand, Spock finally begins to pull away. He has to extend tremendous self-control to ignore the sharp pains shooting up his back as he does so, but he does not miss the loose, gripless way Jim’s hands immediately fall from his back, landing on either side of Spock’s legs atop the deep red blanket that is covering them. When they are sitting apart, Jim lifts one of those hands to rub over his eyes, which are both red, then he looks down at Spock’s knees through the blanket, though Spock can tell Jim is not truly looking at him, but only looking at him while internally looking backwards at some greatly affecting fear.

At a loss, Spock realizes there are tears in Jim’s eyes, too. Feebly, he lifts his unbroken hand and lays it upon Jim’s shoulder. “I am… unsure how to reassure you,” he stammers.

Through his tears, Jim laughs, but it is a broken sound. When he looks to the side, his eyes are glistening under the soft white lights of sickbay, but there is a weak grin on his face: an attempt to mask pain, or to make someone else pay less attention to it. Despite himself, Spock finds the familiarity reassuring, though he is simultaneously disturbed that Jim feels the need to be this way.

“You aren’t supposed to be comforting _me_ , Spock,” Jim says. He is not crying, not truly, but there are tears still on his face, though he had tried to wipe them away.

Spock watches Jim try to pull himself together, both of his arms still on either side of Spock’s legs, either trying to shield Spock or to hold his own body upright. Neither one of them seem physically capable of standing right now. Hesitantly, Spock listens to the weakness in his arm, his body using up too much energy to keep holding it upright, and so he lets it slip from Jim’s shoulder. Once down, he places the unbroken hand atop his other hand, bound with a stiff cast and aching dully beneath it. Even with the painkillers McCoy has been giving him, not everything can be suppressed. In fact, much of it has not been, because Spock had specifically requested his senses not be made so dull he could not tell what his body was feeling.

They sit there like that for a while, not touching, but still sharing the same air, the same space, even – as it seems – some aspect of the same pain. Finally, Jim pulls backwards, and though Spock can see the brief, almost nonexistent moment when Jim tries to put a smile onto his face, the effort proves too much to take, for when Jim stands up from the biobed and stares down at Spock, there is nothing but sadness in him, his lips pressed tightly together and his face far too pale.

“Can you eat?” Jim asks, all in one breath. Spock isn’t sure it’s the question Jim wanted to ask, but it seems to hold some relevance, so even though Spock is now very rarely sure of the answer to that question, still he nods feebly in response. “Can I get you something to eat?” Jim continues, still with that stilted, forcibly contained edge of fear.

Again, Spock nods, though it stretches out the bruises on his neck and makes them ache. As Jim takes a quick breath and turns around, Spock feels his body seize with a certain, unnamed panic, and before Jim has fully vacated the curtained-off area, Spock calls out, “You will return?”

Jim goes still against the curtains, his shoulders tense and his head bowed. Perhaps he feels guilty, then, for having caused enough fear in Spock that he would ask that. This is just as well, for Spock feels guilty for having asked. Face heating at his own transparent request for company, Spock looks down at his hands, not wanting to see Jim’s expression when he inevitably turns around.

“I understand your discomfort,” Spock tries to explain, though his words feel like they are crashing together in his haste to get them out. “This situation is not…” He swallows, hard. Too much air goes down his throat, so it hurts. He shuts his eyes, finishing, “...it is not comfortable. I understand why you might need...” Again, the pain in his throat. Frustrated, he swallows again, then says, “...distance.”

There is a pause in which the only sound in the room is the ship’s internal humming, a soft beeping of monitors, and a running air sound from the portable heater McCoy had set up beside his biobed. In that relative quiet, Spock knows Jim has not yet left, and he tenses in preparation for whatever reaction he might be about to receive. Finally, there is the soft sound of returning footsteps, then the presence of Jim standing beside his biobed again.

“Spock,” Jim says, as he leans over. With one hand, he gently touches the back of Spock’s head, exerting a pressure so light it can barely be felt against Spock’s scalp as Jim wordlessly asks Spock to look up. When Spock does, he finds Jim looking at him with eyes that are still red-rimmed, and a mouth that is still trying – and failing – to smile. “I don’t need distance from my _best friend_. I’m going to be right back, okay? I promise. Just getting food, then I’ll be here, right next to you.”

Spock allows himself the luxury of staring into Jim’s eyes for a few seconds, reading the truth of that statement and trying so hard to believe it. This is another part of his mind that has been damaged: the part that can believe easily that an offer of goodwill will actually be carried out. He has gotten used to engaging in activities out of the belief that doing them would mean he would not have to perform other acts, and this so rarely had been true.

Jim lightly smoothes down the hair on the back of Spock’s head, then steps away. “How’s kreyla bread and plomeek soup sound?” he asks, as he goes to leave for the second time.

Spock holds his broken hand tightly in his lap and nods. “Acceptable, Captain,” he says, and then flinches when he realizes he has fallen back on an honorific that he is unsure is even presently accurate. Still, Jim does not correct him. When the curtain falls back into place and Jim has left the room, Spock takes a few short, quick breaths, before putting his unbroken hand down and slowly using it as leverage to lie down on his side with as little pain as possible.

He picks a nice, calm-looking place on the curtain across from him to stare at, and waits to see if Jim will come back.


	8. Purging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets Spock to talk a little about what happened to him, and things unravel somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some injury-related illness, as well as descriptions of blood and some panic-motivated reactions. Spock is scared to talk about certain things. :(
> 
> Many thanks go to [thepoette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thepoette) for her always invaluable feedback, by the way! Without her, this story would have been missing something crucial (as would I, for that matter). Thank you for being there, love. <3

* * *

Once more in sickbay, where the air is well-circulated and yet still always seems to retain a subtle, sharply antiseptic smell, Jim Kirk carries with him a weight much heavier than the warm, lidded mug of plomeek broth in his hands. Guilt has settled deep within his spine, dragging down his shoulders and sinking into his eyes. He cannot escape it. He just keeps thinking of his part in this situation, how his ignorance had led to Spock's abduction and, now, the pain Spock is in as a direct result.

In front of Jim and surrounded by privacy curtains, Spock is lying motionlessly on his side, his frail body seeming to hardly even breathe. He seems overall unresponsive, his eyes half-lidded as they stare sightlessly at the curtains across from his biobed. Furthermore, his blankets are pulled up high enough to cover most of his body, including the lower half of his face, where there is a lump in the blankets to indicate that Spock has raised both hands to protect his mouth.

_Dissociation_ , Jim’s mind supplies for him, then adds, _Spock’s scared_. Both already obvious facts; neither of them welcome.

Above the top edge of Spock's blanket, the torn point in the cartilage of Spock's left ear is clearly visible, and Jim has to force himself not to stare or otherwise show any outward signs of discomfort as he walks closer. Carefully, he eases down onto the space on Spock's biobed that is between Spock's curled up knees and the pointed bends of his elbows, sitting in such a way that it almost seems as though Spock has curled around Jim, though there are still several inches of space between them.

“Hey,” Jim says, with a light touch to Spock’s upper arm through the rough, woolen fabric of his blanket. He’s trying so hard to act like things are okay, like Spock isn’t on the verge of mental and physical collapse. He hadn’t expected just a few minutes of being alone would do this to Spock, and he’s not sure what to do. “Spock? Spock, they didn't have the bread, but I brought soup. Are you awake?”

Spock flinches slightly at the touch, causing Jim to yank his hand back. When Spock’s gaze drifts over to find Jim sitting so close, a breath catches in Spock’s chest, at least until he shuts his eyes, takes another, slower breath, and then reopens his eyes.

“Apologies,” Spock rasps out a moment later, his voice hoarse and his blanket falling from his shoulders as he struggles to sit up. “I am awake.” He does not explain what he is apologizing for, but he does not have to. Jim isn’t expecting Spock to act normally: not now, and probably not for a while yet.

“It’s fine,” Jim says, though it’s not. Nothing about this is, but for Spock’s sake, he has to at least try to offer the illusion of normalcy, so Jim helps Spock sit up with a hand resting gently behind his shoulder, but then pulls away once Spock is upright, sensing Spock might have a need to help himself, at least a little.

With his broken hand now held carefully in his lap, where the dark red cloth of his blanket has pooled, Spock notes the deep green mug in Jim's hand and then reaches for its handle. Before turning the mug over, Jim flips up the straw built into its lid, watching Spock’s left eyebrow jump up slightly at the sight of it.

“You, uh,” Jim waves his free hand a little as he passes the mug to Spock, feeling a need to explain himself. “I thought a straw might be easier. Anyway, it’s technically broth, not soup. You can just… sip it.”

“Yes,” Spock responds, his voice somewhat faint. Perhaps he’s embarrassed to only have the use of one hand to help him eat, one that even now is shaking as he lifts the mug high enough to place his lips around a straw that is clearly designed with children in mind: its material both soft and malleable enough to avoid cutting Spock’s mouth if he is shaking too hard to hold it still.

It’s weirdly uncomfortable to see Spock reduced to sipping his meals through a children’s cup, even if it doesn’t really look like one, so Jim turns away, looking nowhere in particular, but at least _somewhat_ gazing at the same curtains Spock had been staring at when Jim came back here. Past the initial flinch upon waking, Spock hasn’t indicated he wants Jim to move, so Jim stays sitting close to Spock on the bed for a few minutes as, behind him, Spock quietly drinks what Jim brought him.

After a while, Jim sees Spock begin to shift out of the corner of his eye, Spock's too-thin fingers carefully setting down his mug of plomeek broth on a white tray that is standing against the side of his biobed. Only then does Jim look back, finding Spock gazing at him with a tired, vaguely sad look. Having known Spock for years, Jim knows how to recognize this look. Even when most of Spock’s face is completely devoid of expression, his eyes give him away.

“You have a question you want to ask,” Spock says, sounding resigned. His voice is weak, and still somewhat hoarse.

“You know me very well,” Jim says. He's pained by the fact that Spock already seems to know what Jim wants to ask, and by the fact that Spock doesn't seem to want the question asked, when Jim knows it's a question that has to be brought up eventually, possibly even very soon. “But I don't have to ask right now, if you don't want me to. We could talk about something else.”

For a brief moment, Spock looks to the side, his face going blank in a way that Jim can tell is a very deliberate choice. Even Spock’s eyes have been drained of all expression when he turns back to Jim, both his broken and unbroken hand folding together as well as their current state will allow for in his lap. “Ask,” he says, though his voice cracks slightly on the delivery.

Wanting Spock to know he’s there, Jim puts a hand carefully on Spock’s knee though the blanket covering it, squeezing just slightly before simply keeping his palm there, very gently continuing to touch Spock in just that one spot. “Spock, are you… safe? I mean, here? Is anyone going to come after you?”

Despite what seems to be a tremendous effort to appear unphased, Jim can still see the subtle tremor that ripples up Spock’s back, and the minor dilation of his pupils in response. Still, Spock rides it out, though he does look down to avoid meeting Jim’s gaze when he says, “It’s possible, but unlikely that they would seek me out.”

Jim struggles not to visibly react to the confirmation that more than one person has hurt Spock. Once again, he feels a stab of self-hatred at himself, for having left Spock alone with this, even if he hadn't meant to. Fighting the urge to rub his thumb along the side of Spock's kneecap -- both to try to soothe Spock, and to reassure Jim that Spock is, in fact, here now -- Jim says, “How possible?”

Still looking down, only now at Jim's hand on the blanket covering his knee, Spock hesitates. For several seconds, he seems to struggle internally against something, before he responds, in a tight voice, “Jim, I was a commodity. It was primarily my race that was relevant to what they..." He stalls, takes a short breath, lets it out, and continues, "...what they wanted. If anything, my individual identity proved quite troublesome to them, once revealed.”

“They didn’t know who you were?” Jim is somewhat startled to hear this, having assumed for the course of an entire year that Spock’s abduction had been personally motivated. The idea that Spock had been stolen and then hurt this badly, seemingly for no reason at all other than his being _convenient_ , is making Jim’s chest hurt worse with every heartbeat.

“No,” Spock’s lips twitch just slightly, as though he has just tasted something bitter, “not at first.”

In the tone of Spock’s voice, Jim can hear the unspoken: that something terrible about Spock’s abduction and subsequent, horrific abuse had been deeply influenced by the reveal of his identity, even if it hadn’t initially been a factor. Heart beating wildly now as Jim wonders what else this could involve, he tilts his head to the side, straining to figure out how much more he can ask, and how much more Spock can handle talking about. Jim’s not even sure if _he_ can handle hearing more right now, knowing that he could've prevented it all if he'd just stayed by Spock's side a year ago, instead of splitting up under the stupid, useless excuse of saving a little time.

Finally, Jim just settles on saying, “Spock, did… did Bones, or... or anyone else here already talk to you about any of this?”

Still apparently unable to look up, Spock shuts his eyes and exhales. “Doctor McCoy trusted I would tell him what was relevant for my treatment. He has not been told more.” In Spock's lap, his unbroken hand fidgets nervously atop his bound one, which suddenly spasms in his lap. As if the sudden spasm of his broken hand had caught his attention, Spock opens his eyes to stare at it and then he swallows, sending his adam’s apple careening shakily down the faded bruises on his neck. “I… did not want to tell him about... more.”

At once, Jim knows it’s time to drop the conversation. Furthermore, he knows it’s already gone too far. Spock’s shoulders are starting to lean inwards, his body trembling noticeably harder and a slight sheen of sweat now on his forehead. Spock still can’t seem to look up, gazing only on his hands, his eyes turning glassy, and far too bright.

Jim’s throat seems to close up, breathing seeming so much harder as he watches Spock’s carefully-controlled veneer start to crack and crumble all around him. “Spock, let’s stop talking ab–”

“The bucket,” Spock interrupts, his voice much louder than before. More… distressed.

“What?” A chill runs down Jim’s spine. He doesn’t know what that means, what Spock is trying to say. A bucket? Perhaps something to do with how he'd been tortured?

More insistently, Spock points with a shaking hand at the floor, beneath the tray holding what’s left of his plomeek broth. “I need–”

Jim looks where Spock is pointing, and immediately gets it. He jumps down from the bed, reaching the white bucket on the floor and bringing it up to Spock’s face, just in time for Spock’s stomach to start violently expelling the sour scent of whatever’s in it.

“Oh, shit,” Jim stammers, holding onto both the bucket and Spock’s shoulders to help Spock remain upright as the half-Vulcan gags uncontrollably, his unbroken hand scrabbling against the side of the bucket in a failing effort to try to hold it up himself. At first, Jim thinks it’s just ordinary vomiting, maybe because Spock isn’t used to food anymore, or because Jim stupidly pushed him too far, but then Jim sees something else splattering against the sides of the white bucket: something _green_.

“Chapel!” Jim yells, only to see the navy curtains surrounding Spock’s bed almost immediately burst open, revealing Chapel’s concerned – yet well-composed – face as she immediately runs to Spock’s side. “Help him,” Jim begs, as Spock’s body convulses against his arm, “he’s vomiting _blood_!”

“Sit behind him,” Chapel orders, her voice sharp as she rapidly pulls a drawer from the wall and grabs medical equipment from it. “Hold him up!”

“Okay,” Jim stammers, scrambling to do so. The bed is in an upright position behind Spock, so it’s a little awkward to get up on it without falling forward, but he manages it because he thinks Spock would probably panic if someone suddenly fell with all their weight against his back.

Just as he’s wrapping his arm around the front of Spock’s skeletal body to hold him steady, his other arm still holding the bucket in front of them both as Chapel whirls around them with a medical tricorder, something even worse than Spock’s vomiting blood happens.

Without warning, Spock's entire body shudders once and then goes totally limp, his eyes rolling back in his head as he collapses backwards, the back of his skull crashing into Jim’s shoulder and then hanging off the edge of it. Spock’s hand, also, slips down from its attempted hold on the bucket and falls lax to the bed, motionless.

Behind them, the monitors attached to Spock’s biobed start shrieking wildly, while in Jim’s arms, even the constant trembling of Spock’s arms has now gone deathly still. Spock’s entire weight presses without any resistance against Jim’s body, the bones of Spock’s spine sinking jaggedly into Jim’s stomach.

“Spock!” Jim yells, in panic, but Spock doesn’t hear him, doesn’t move or otherwise acknowledge Jim at all. He only lies there, the rasping sound of his breathing through the trickle of green blood pouring from the corner of his mouth his only sign of life.

Above Spock's chest, Chapel is moving her hands about quickly, doing things Jim doesn’t understand, with devices Jim only vaguely recognizes the sounds and lights of. “Keep holding him!” she urges, as if that were even a matter in question.

There’s no way in hell Jim’s letting Spock go now.


	9. Heaviness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill as an unforeseen medical complication wrecks havoc on Spock's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Spock POV, so a bit of a panic attack, negative headspace, and some mild sexual assault descriptions. Medical disorder depicted is both real and serious, but ultimately (due to the care he will receive) it will be non-lethal.
> 
> This chapter took a while to post because I realized during my first attempt at writing it that I had to thoroughly educate myself on a few medical matters to push the story where I wanted it to go. As a result, lots of research has gone into the next few chapters. And I mean _lots_. I've discovered a love of neurology that I was previously unaware of, and I'm excited about the potential that opens up. The peripheral nervous system is fascinating, and I think I love the vagus nerve. JUST THROWING THAT OUT THERE.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Spock can barely feel his legs. They are heavy where they rest below his hospital blanket and the thicker, red blanket Uhura brought him to both warm and comfort him as he recovers. Even Jim, who is sitting at the bottom of Spock’s bed and lightly touching Spock’s left foot through the blankets, can only be felt by Spock through visuals and a brushing glance of psychic confirmation. Any _actual_ sensation in his legs has abandoned Spock, and he can feel the same numbness beginning to spread through his arms.

“This  _is_  temporary, you said?” Jim asks McCoy, who is sitting on a stool beside the bed, his face covered with both hands. “I mean, we _can_ reverse this?”

McCoy sighs loudly into his palms, the sound a combination of many volatile emotions: anger, helplessness, and stress. “It should be. In about 70% of all cases of Guillain-Barré, it resolves without further complications, and it helps that we caught it fast.” He pauses, lowers his hands, and then catches Spock’s eye with a frown that Spock supposes is meant to convey stubbornness, as though McCoy is attempting to reassure Spock that he is not going to give up on him. “This is not a typical disease, Spock,” McCoy continues. “I mean, _technically_ , it’s not a disease at all; it’s a _syndrome_ , which is why scans didn’t pick up on it. Basically, your immune system has decided – maybe due to an interaction with a previous infection – that it’s going to start attacking its own cells: in this case, your nervous system. That’s why you’re...” He gestures somewhat aimlessly in Spock’s direction, and Spock has to hold himself very still to avoid flinching at the swing of McCoy’s arm, “well… why you’re having trouble moving, and why the strain of throwing up caused you to pass out. Your nerves are being stripped raw of the protective sheaths on them that allow them to communicate with your brain.”

Spock takes a deep, slow breath, wondering how long it will take for his body to reach full paralysis. Though his arms are getting progressively more difficult to lift from the bed, still they shiver like leaves in a great wind, and he wonders if that will cease also. “How long does this process typically take to reverse?” he tries to say calmly, but fails. His voice comes out in a faint, rasping tone, his throat tightening in response to a feeling Spock has little choice but to acknowledge is _fear_. Gesturing with just his chin to where a new IV line has been placed above the cast on his left arm and below the crook in his inner elbow, Spock says, “Will this reduce the degree to which my symptoms will occur?”

“The paralysis could last anytime between a few days and a few months.” Gritting his teeth together, McCoy stares at the green blood being drained out of Spock’s body through a clear, plastic IV and into a cylindrical, mechanical filtering device McCoy has set up on a rolling table. “And yeah, plasma exchange should help reduce the recovery time required, but I’m not gonna lie to you, Spock. Until we hear back from a compatible blood donor, this is just a stop-gap measure. All it’s doing is taking out some of the antibodies that are going haywire in your body, but to do that properly, I’m going to have to remove more blood plasma from you than I’m comfortable with doing, at least not without the ability to replace it.”

Jim makes a sound from the bottom of the bed that is difficult to define, but that sounds caught somewhere between horror and amusement: most likely a sarcastic reaction, as Jim’s personality is not driven towards finding entertainment in the suffering of others. When Spock turns to face him, Jim has pulled a leg up onto the bed and is now bracing his forehead against his kneecap while staring down at his thigh with a flickering, bitter smile.

“This is so unfair,” Jim says, squeezing his eyes shut. Visually, Spock can see that Jim is holding Spock’s foot slightly tighter through his blankets now, but Spock cannot feel it. “ _Months?_ ”

An odd expression flickers across McCoy’s face: guilt, Spock guesses, though the expression vanishes too quickly to be sure.

“Hopefully not that long,” McCoy says, as he turns his face away. Tapping a hand against his own thigh, he stares at the machine currently separating the liquid plasma components of Spock’s blood from the cellular and platelet components that will be returned to Spock’s body later. “As I said, prompt detection is vital to a quick recovery, and as I don’t think this was happening yesterday, Spock, I’d say your odds are good.”

The notion that any part of this is “good” is nearly unthinkable. Staring down at his right hand, Spock watches his fingertips struggle to curl together, the pressure of each one against the other hardly even noticeable. Though he strains, nearly nothing happens, and as McCoy had emphasized earlier, if the spread of this nerve damage becomes extensive enough, Spock will need to be placed on a respirator to even _breathe_.

After nearly a year spent held down by magnetic restraints and the physical weight of bodies on top of him, Spock does not think he will be able to handle his own body, though currently unrestrained by any external force, becoming completely incapable of protecting itself. Even the thought of being so completely helpless causes his vision to momentarily blur, his breath to catch in his throat.

A pressure leaks through the numbness engulfing Spock’s left arm, and though Spock tries to jolt his arm completely away from the touch, he only succeeds in causing his arm to flinch. “Please do not _touch_ me,” he hisses out, through teeth gritted firmly together.

McCoy immediately yanks his hand away from Spock’s arm, and Jim jerks his hand away from Spock’s foot as though the blankets covering it have burst into flames.

Spock wants to curl his legs up, wants to pull his knees closer to his chin to protect his core areas from the possibility of intrusion, but he cannot get his legs to move. They stay only where they are, thighs slightly parted under his blankets in a position he’d initially chosen for comfort’s sake, but that now seems profoundly, horrifyingly unsafe.

Struggling, he barely manages to get his right arm into the air, then lets it fall to rest on his right thigh, where he tries – without success – to push his legs closer together. Nothing moves the way he wants it to. Nothing… moves, and it’s going to get worse, and he can’t stop what is happening to him, and…

“ _Hey_ ,” Jim’s voice is suddenly right up against his ear, both of his hands on Spock’s shoulders, where Spock can still _feel_ , where the paralysis hasn’t gotten to yet, and Spock takes a startled, inward breath and looks up into where Jim’s face is very, very close to Spock’s own, but not moving any closer to him, not trying to force himself down on Spock’s body.

“Captain,” Spock stammers. The world seems to have blurred, only Jim’s face still in stark contrast, though Spock is distantly aware that McCoy has also risen from his seat, and is now standing beside the bed. Swallowing, Spock adds, “Doctor.” As soon as he has been acknowledged, McCoy lays his hand flat against the center of Spock’s back, helping to hold him up.

“We’re here, Spock,” McCoy says, very quietly. “It’s just us here, no one else.”

Ashamed, Spock bows his head as the tips of both of his ears begin to heat, though the sensation is less powerful where the cartilage of his left ear is torn. He wants to explain himself, wants to be less reactive, wants to reassure his friends that it is not them he distrusts, but he cannot. For reasons unrelated to the paralysis crawling, unwanted, through his body, he cannot seem to get his throat loose enough to speak. When he opens his mouth, only a shaky, soft breath comes out.

The bed shifts as Jim sits beside Spock, and the motion of his hip pressing against Spock’s to make room for himself has the unintended effect of pushing Spock’s legs closer together.

The relief that fills Spock is followed shortly after with even greater shame for having needed that to begin with, and as McCoy lightly rubs the warmth of his thumb between Spock’s shoulder blades, trying to calm him, Spock closes his eyes, tightens his jaw, and leans forward so that he can rest his forehead against Jim’s clavicle.

Safe here, he reminds himself to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps an unnecessary note and PSA, but during my research about Guillain-Barré syndrome, I found that many people have primarily heard about it in literature for flu vaccinations, as people who have had an incidence of Guillain-Barré syndrome at some point in their life are recommended not to get flu shots.
> 
> I want to emphasize _strongly_ that in regards to everything I've read about this rare autoimmune disorder, for any individual who has _not_ had an incidence of Guillain-Barré syndrome before, those individuals are far, _far_ more likely to experience Guillain-Barré syndrome for the first time after having caught the _actual flu_ , so _getting_ a flu shot can actually help you NOT get Guillain-Barré syndrome. Avoidance of flu shots should ONLY be done by people who have been explicitly told by their doctors to do so, for medical reasons. _There is no definitive link between vaccinations and Guillain-Barré syndrome_. There IS, however, a link between ACTUAL INFECTIONS and Guillain-Barré syndrome, and since Guillain-Barré syndrome is absolutely _horrible_ to experience, I would highly recommend getting flu shots, as a general practice as well as in regards to this specific thing, too.
> 
> BASICALLY: flu shots are good things. Do not avoid your flu shots, oh my god, _please_. They are so important. Group immunity is a _big deal_. Spock is not getting this problem because of a vaccination of any kind. He definitely got _actually sick_ with something I'm going to go into later, which led to what's happening now, and so I _DO NOT_ want anyone coming away from this story with a fear of flu shots, because flu shots are honestly our friends, and they are very, very good and important and wonderful things, and you should not fear them, because they give us strength to fight against all sorts of nasties, and that's a _great_ thing. :D


	10. Calming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarek arrives on board the _Enterprise_ , bringing with him an additional, much-needed source of support for Spock. McCoy, meanwhile, does what he can to keep Spock safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, unless _extremely vague_ suspicions count. Those who are familiar with certain Star Trek episodes may notice a few interesting hints starting to appear. Otherwise, this chapter is low on upsetting imagery, and high on characters who care a great deal.

* * *

Sarek’s restless meditation is disrupted by a clank and hiss and a sudden, mild shifting of the shuttlecraft _Galileo_ as it lands inside of the _Enterprise_ ’s shuttle bay. He can feel machinery in the metal walls powering down as he raises a hand to press against the mild humming, growing ever fainter, and then lifts himself from his seat.

A well-stocked, cryogenic case is stored under his seat, full of T-negative blood donations in a self-contained, refrigerated environment. This, he grabs swiftly, holding the handle of the silver, briefcase-shaped object in a fist he is disturbed to find he can barely loosen enough not to cause himself physical pain.

At the helm of the shuttlecraft, his pilot, a young woman whose hair has been shaved close to her scalp, turns around in her seat to smile hesitantly. Sarek knows the source of her consternation: Sarek has barely spoken during the entirety of their hours-long journey, too enraptured with his own thoughts to spare the focus needed to indulge in idle chit-chat, and so he imagines his behavior might have been interpreted in the way the behavior of so many Vulcans can be misinterpreted amidst non-Vulcan species: as cold and unfeeling.

“Thank you for lending your skills as a pilot, Lieutenant Poe,” Sarek says, in an effort to maintain some modicum of decorum and respect, for he knows his current state of distraction has nothing to do with the company he has kept on the way here, and everything to do with the mostly-undisclosed reason why he is here now.

“Of course, Ambassador,” Lieutenant Poe says, as she taps a particular place on her navigation screen, following which the hiss of hydraulics on the side of the shuttlecraft indicates the imminent opening of the door. “And thank you. Do you want help carrying your luggage?”

A second, less important suitcase is resting atop the chair beside which Sarek had sat. He lifts this with less urgency than he had the first item, and then tilts his head. “That will be unnecessary,” He can feel Amanda’s lasting influence over his actions as he adds, kindly, “though your offer is appreciated.”

_Galileo_ 's shuttlecraft door is now almost fully open, and on the other side of it, Sarek hears the chatter and motion of a starship crew containing many species, all of them casting a certain harmony over the relative crowding of the bay. Lifting his chin to face the bright lights streaming down from above, Sarek mounts the exit ramp as soon as it is safe to do so, the soft boots on his feet making little noise against the metal below. Before him in a crowd of individuals wearing primarily yellows and reds, he sees the fleeting dart of an individual dressed in a blue uniform shirt coming towards him.

Ashamedly, Sarek feels a tugging in his chest, an irrational hope that the blue shirt belongs to his son, whom Sarek has only so recently learned is still alive, but he knows this cannot be the case. At this time, his son is so gravely ill that he can barely move, much less come to greet Sarek as he arrives. Though Sarek has received only limited details regarding his son’s condition, the urgency of the given request for compatible blood donations has given Sarek much cause for concern.

“Doctor McCoy,” Sarek raises his voice just loud enough to be heard over the many other voices blending casually into the background. There is steam drifting out from the sides of his now-vacated shuttlecraft, but this does not affect Sarek very much, except to cause his green and gold-embroidered robes to shiver lightly around his body as he strides forward.

“Ambassador Sarek!” Doctor McCoy calls back, arriving at Sarek’s side only to follow him right back into the same crowd he had just left. “I trust you won’t take this the wrong way, but you are a damned good sight for sore eyes.” There is a medical tricorder in his hand, one he lifts to show Sarek. “You mind?”

“You may proceed,” Sarek responds, and McCoy immediately begins running the tricorder up and down a short distance away from Sarek’s body as they continue to walk through the crowd.

“You don’t know how glad I am you could get here so fast.” Not looking up from his tricorder readouts, McCoy lifts an appraising eyebrow at the silver case Sarek is maneuvering carefully behind him as they make their way through a particularly dense concentration of _Enterprise_ personnel, all of them carrying what appear to be air filtration components. “I’ll be damned,” he continues, with a sharp, inward breath, “is that what I _think_ it is?”

“That depends on what you believe it is, Doctor,” Sarek says, and though he tries hard to keep his voice composed and free from any lingering trace of the unease his failed attempts at meditation have caused him, he is unsure how successful the attempt is, “though in this case,” he continues, with slightly greater calm, “I’d wager your assumption is true.”

“T-negative blood,” McCoy says, after tapping out a command on his tricorder and then running a new scan over the case being held carefully behind Sarek. Though the doctor is bracketed on all sides by passing individuals, he seems to have no trouble navigating through them while continuing to work, the sign of one who is entirely at ease in his environment. “Has it been treated yet?”

“Indeed, Doctor. The samples from myself have been irradiated to prevent rejection,” Sarek assures, as he self-guides himself, from memory, in a direction that will eventually lead him to the _Enterprise_ ’s sickbay. “Additionally, cellular components have been removed from all samples, leaving only plasma. They are ready for immediate use, as per your exact specifications.”

Without looking up, McCoy huffs out the barest hint of a laugh, which Sarek finds odd until he turns his head slightly to see the relief in the doctor’s gaze.

“Vulcans!” McCoy declares, while swinging his arms slightly into the air in a gesture Sarek supposes must indicate something positive, if the grin on the doctor’s face is any indication. “Oh,” he stammers, a moment later. “I meant that in a good way.”

“I assure you, Doctor, that was already apparent.” As Sarek strides past one of the _Enterprise_ ’s own, docked shuttlecrafts, his gaze is abruptly caught by the presence of another ship behind it, the sight of that ship so disturbing that he comes to an immediate stop. The ship is non-Federation in design, as well as much smaller than a standard Federation shuttlecraft would typically be, with docking ports built into every visible side of the ship, as though the ship is designed for connecting on all sides to other, corresponding ships.

The shuttle bay has not experienced a shift in atmospheric conditions, but Sarek still feels the illusion of a cold wind across his back, and he clenches his fists tighter around the handles of his two suitcases. Awash with a disquieting sense of recognition for the ship’s origin, Sarek’s concern for his son’s well-being only erupts further: an emotional response he is having great difficulty keeping at bay.

McCoy does not seem to notice at first that Sarek has stopped, instead continuing to walk forward for several steps before he stalls and, with a startled look, turns around to see what has caught Sarek’s attention. A moment later, Sarek realizes the doctor has said something that Sarek did not hear, despite their close proximity. Sarek takes in a singular, centering breath before he turns back to face the doctor.

“I apologize,” Sarek says. His hands remain tight around both of his suitcases, perhaps enough to distort the woven handle of his casual, personal suitcase, if not the more structured metal of the cryogenic case. “If you would repeat yourself?”

McCoy’s gaze travels over Sarek’s shoulder, to the non-Federation shuttlecraft set within the taped-off confines of a restricted area, the only place in the entire shuttle bay that has no personnel standing near it. A look of unease crosses over the doctor’s features briefly, before he clears his throat and, though still visibly shaken, turns back to the screen of the tricorder in his hand.

“I...asked when the date of your last donation was,” McCoy says, his voice slightly thicker than before. “I need to make sure to do this safely, for all parties involved.”

“It was eight days ago,” Sarek says, as he more forcefully turns away from the foreign shuttlecraft to return, once again, to navigating his way through the surrounding crowd of chattering, lively crewmembers.

“Eight days ago?” McCoy says, his eyebrows furrowed together as he speeds up to follow Sarek’s increased pace. “We only contacted you yesterday!”

“Yes. I keep a… precautionary supply.” Distracted, Sarek can barely find the patience he usually relies on to maintain a calm demeanor, even in remarkably stressful situations. “As you are aware, my son and I possess a rare blood type, and as there are so few of our people left to maintain a blood bank of any relative magnitude, I find it prudent to supply what I can.”

McCoy does not respond to that for a moment, perhaps out of sensitivity – or simply personal remembrance – for the loss of Vulcan, but he does not remain silent for long. As they reach the exit doors of the shuttle bay that lead to the corridors beyond, he tucks his tricorder into his waistband and then says, “I’d usually recommend a waiting period of two weeks between donations, but if you think you can handle it, I’d like to ask you if you could donate every third day, for potentially a few weeks. You should know, donating so frequently could cause certain side effects, and–”

“Irrelevant,” Sarek responds. He is already aware of the risks, and knows he will not die in such a situation. At worst, he will endure periods of weakness, and perhaps a need to increase his caloric intake, and certainly a greater need to take precautions when faced with the ongoing possibility of vertigo, or nausea. All of these considerations pale when held up against Sarek’s steadily increasing worry – though he tries hard to suppress it – that his son is in such a dire condition that Doctor McCoy, whom Sarek knows is a respectful, ethical, and careful physician, would even suggest such a prolonged and intensive drain on someone who is effectively about to become one of his patients.

Sarek swallows, then carefully allows his hands to loosen back to a relatively gentle grip around the handles of his two suitcases. “I willingly accept your proposal, Doctor,” he continues, as they walk together through hallways much less crowded than the shuttlecraft bay, but still not isolated by any means. “Whatever my son requires, if it is within my ability to provide, I will offer it.”

McCoy nods, then takes a deep breath. As he does not seem to be finding it difficult to match their rapid pace through the ship’s corridors, Sarek knows the breath to have been one of stress, or perhaps concern, and this is further verified by the downward glance the doctor is directing at the floor when Sarek looks back to see him.

“Do you have something further to inform me of, before we arrive at your sickbay?” Sarek asks, through his stomach feels oddly… tense… as he does so.

“I just need you to be aware that your son doesn’t look quite as he used to look,” McCoy says, with clear discomfort. His footfalls are considerably louder against the polished floor as he walks beside Sarek, whose own footsteps are swift yet quiet. “He’s lost roughly 30% of his body weight, as well as suffered a number of physical traumas, some of them quite apparent. He’s on the mend, and he’s gonna be fine, but you’ll notice them, basically.”

Sarek measures his breathing rate as an attempt to remain visibly dispassionate, though the sympathetic look the doctor is giving him implies that either Sarek is not succeeding at this, or else McCoy has simply become skilled at reading the subtle tells of Vulcan expression.

“Are you quite certain he wishes me to see him?” Sarek says, only aware once he has spoken of the intensely vulnerable nature of the question, and how it reveals the doubt he is experiencing as he considers how carefully his son has often attempted to disguise any moment of weakness, even those he has no control over.

“He specifically requested it, actually.” McCoy looks even more uncomfortable as they reach a turbolift and step into it side-by-side, the doctor taking the liberty of speaking aloud their destination before the doors slide shut. Together, they stand at the back of the lift as it begins to hum and move, the lights from passing floors visibly flashing through small glass windows near the doors.

For a brief moment, Sarek allows himself the small comfort of closing his eyes and leaning slightly against the wall behind him, though he does not linger there. Eyes re-opening as he stands fully straight again, he says, “Is Spock aware of the Orion craft in your shuttle bay?”

McCoy lifts a hand to his forehead, rubbing at his face with his palm before wincing slightly and letting his hand fall back down. For a pause, he stares at the closed turbolift doors and does not respond, but then he says, his voice tight, “Knowing Spock, probably.”

“That does not… trouble him?” Sarek says, though he hesitates somewhat before settling on a word to describe an emotional rather than a conditional state.

Settling a hand on one hip, McCoy leans slightly away from Sarek, though he does fix his eyes on him, apparently assessing whether or not Sarek intended that as a derogatory statement, or one of genuine concern. Seemingly before he has decided, the lift doors slide open, revealing an empty hallway ahead of them, with sickbay very close after that.

Still, they remain there for a moment in the lift, each considering the other, until Sarek decides to break the stalemate. He offers the cryogenic briefcase to McCoy, somewhat as a wordless peace offering, and McCoy takes it and holds it close to his chest.

“Don’t talk about the Orion ship,” McCoy finally says, as he steps out of the turbolift, Sarek following him shortly after. “Spock’s not on active duty. Unless he asks about it, he doesn’t have to think about it.”

Sarek nods slightly, the fingertips of his now-free hand gripping the soft edge of his embroidered sleeve, which dangles slightly over his palm and the back of his hand.

Unsure if he is fully prepared to see his son, but wanting to do so all the same, Sarek allows himself to be led by McCoy the remaining few steps to sickbay.

 

* * *

 

Doctor McCoy does not let Sarek immediately see his son. Instead, Sarek is greeted and then led by Nurse Chapel to sit inside a small office within sickbay for approximately twenty standard earth minutes as McCoy takes with him the cryogenic case and goes alone into the curtained-off area where Sarek has been told his son is recovering. Sarek spends the time attempting to meditate, though once again, true calm eludes him.

When McCoy returns, Sarek is only closing his eyes and counting his breaths, at least attempting mindfulness if a meditative state cannot be currently reached.

“Ambassador,” McCoy calls, to draw him out of this state, and Sarek obediently rises from the white, plastic chair he has been seated on. “Spock’s asking for you.”

Sarek walks quickly out of McCoy’s office, only to be pulled back into the doorway as the doctor snags his sleeve and tugs at him. Having not expected the interruption, but not wanting to cause a scene by forcefully freeing his sleeve, Sarek turns to face him.

“Say nice things,” McCoy says, his voice low enough to be a threat, though his grip is light enough to reveal that, if it is a threat, it is not a hostile one, only one the doctor believes in strongly.

The concern makes Sarek pause. He very nearly protests that, in this instance, ‘nice’ things may not be possible to focus on solely, but ultimately, he decides to accept the statement without resistance, knowing McCoy has had more exposure as of late to Spock’s needs.

“I appreciate your concern,” Sarek begins to say, with genuine sincerity, only to be interrupted.

“I mean it,” McCoy says, while tightening his grip slightly. As the doctor is only holding Sarek’s sleeve, Sarek does not feel the pressure, beyond a slight shifting of fabric. “Listen, Spock does want to see you. But that doesn’t mean he wants a _lecture_ about why he didn’t tell you immediately as soon as he was back here.”

That had not been Sarek’s immediate concern, but once it has been mentioned, Sarek finds he must acknowledge to himself that it had been a consideration of his, though not one he had had intent to bring up. Still, he nods in agreement, and McCoy releases his sleeve.

“He can’t move much on his own right now,” McCoy warns. “You’re gonna have to be the one to set a respectful distance for him.”

Thoughts of the Orion ship currently parked in the _Enterprise_ ’s shuttlebay spring, unbidden, to Sarek’s mind, and he has to gently push them away, for Sarek knows he cannot afford to think of them at this time. Without another word, only another brief nod to declare his continued acknowledgement, Sarek walks away from McCoy and then through sickbay, until he has reached the navy blue curtains surrounding his son, following which he lifts the edge of one and enters the closed-off space.

Inside, where the lights have been significantly dimmed, he unexpectedly finds not one occupied bed, but two. To his right, he recognizes the form of the currently inactive Captain of the _Enterprise_. Jim Kirk is sprawled facedown on his own biobed, his arms tucked under a pillow that he is pressing against his face, and there is a standard, blue medical blanket covering him from the waist down. He is dressed in casual attire and appears to be sleeping deeply, though Sarek cannot hear him at all.

To Sarek’s left, however, is Spock. Pale and vaguely skeletal, his son is sitting up, very clearly only due to the raised position of his bed and the neck pillow holding his head comfortably upright. His arms are both resting limply at his sides, his left hand bound in a light cast, while his right hand seems to suffer from a slight, persistent tremble. Around him, Sarek can see the equipment Doctor McCoy used to initiate a blood plasma exchange, though the only thing still currently and visibly attached to Spock is a thin IV tube leading from the inner elbow of his left arm to what appears to be a nutrient solution strung up in a bag attached to the wall behind him.

“Spock,” Sarek says, and he surprises himself with how softly his voice can be heard as he approaches his son’s bed and sits down on the chair beside it.

“Father,” Spock responds, his voice so hoarse and weak that Sarek can hardly hear it.

“I am here.” Feeling an unwelcome tension in his throat, Sarek pulls his chair a little closer to the bed, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he gently lays his palm atop the trembling surface of Spock’s unbroken hand.

Spock’s fingers curl slightly, perhaps trying to take hold of Sarek’s, though lacking the strength to do so. As Spock takes a deep breath, his eyes closing, Sarek adjusts his hold so that his grip is still loose, but is also just tight enough to lessen the trembling of Spock’s hand.

Sarek expects more to be said, but Spock does not attempt to say anything further, and so neither does Sarek. Instead, they remain silent under lights that have been dimmed almost completely, Sarek’s hand remaining on top of his son’s in the shadows as Spock’s breathing slows, the trembling of his hand gradually lessening under Sarek’s until, when Spock falls asleep several minutes later, his trembling has stopped completely.

Still holding the slight, gentle warmth of his son's hand beneath his own, Sarek closes his eyes and inhales a slow, even breath. Though his worry for Spock still remains, Sarek finds his mind becoming calmer, and in the quiet that surrounds them, the two of them continue to breathe.


	11. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: death mention (not story-related)

Hi, everyone. This isn't a chapter, but while I am feeling up to talking about this, I needed to inform you all that this story has _not_ been abandoned. I had to walk away from it for a while, however, and I feel indebted to give you an explanation.

I don't want to go into it too deeply, but last year, my best friend, Tommy, who was the kindest and gentlest soul I have ever known, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I took care of him in his last several months, and as he reached the end, his symptoms started to strongly mimic a lot of what Spock was going through in this story, so it was... difficult... both to write in general, and to write this story _specifically_. There was too much mirroring, and I had to focus on prioritizing other, important life things. I had to be there for my friend, who I loved incredibly so, and I was.

Moving forward after the loss of Tommy, I'm currently not sure anymore how I'm going to confront some of Spock's suffering. I might end up needing to skip or shorten certain scenes, or possibly write them softer than I was going to, but that hasn't been ultimately decided yet. Making things even harder, before Tommy's diagnosis, he had been an incredible inspiration to me, and so he had inspired a large part of where I had wanted this story to go. Now that my friend is gone, I don't know if I can take that direction anymore. I still want to, but I'm going to have to take that decision one step at a time.

In any case, I endured an incredibly difficult and painful loss, but I'm still here. I still want to finish this. I just couldn't handle writing for a long time, and it might take even more time for me to reorient my direction for this story.

You're all good people, and I know you understand. Thank you for your patience, in the meanwhile.

~Dusty


End file.
